


What about Mycroft?

by General_Button



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Musical Instruments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg always knew Mycroft had to play<i> something</i>. Maybe piano, or violin—like Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What about Mycroft?

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a dumb thing I wrote /o/

“What’s he doing?”

Sherlock responded to the stage-whisper with barely contained disgust, crossing his arms and gesturing to his brother with his head. “Rosining his bow, obviously.” 

Greg had stopped by Sherlock’s in order to gain some insight on a case—possible domestic, but he wanted to be sure—when he’d spotted Mycroft coming into the living room, bow and rosin in hand. “No, I mean, really. I get that you play the violin, but why’s he— he doesn’t play, does he?” 

“No, of course not.” And of course Sherlock didn’t explain. He wasn’t going to acknowledge his brother if he didn’t have to. Greg sighed and shifted his weight to his right foot, watching Mycroft lightly scrape at the hairs to test the take. He apparently wasn’t satisfied and began to draw his cloth across the expanse. 

“I always knew he had to play something; there’s no way you play the violin and Mycroft does nothing. I’d always thought he was a piano guy.” Maybe he played violin before Sherlock, and that was why he seemed so bitter about it. Sherlock sighed like the world was turning against him. 

“God, no. He would be even more insufferable. At least he had the decency to choose an accompanying instrument. He’s good at it.” Greg had to blink. Sherlock giving a compliment, and to a sibling? Granted, he didn’t know exactly how they got along, but the few times he had come to pick up Sherlock had been barely civil. 

“What’s he—”

“I do have ears,” Mycroft quipped, raising his head to look at the two of them. Sherlock shrugged and Greg flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Sorry, just—” And then he was gone, padding quietly into Sherlock’s room again. Getting his instrument, maybe? Bugger. He turned to Sherlock. “Why is he here, anyway? Are you two going to play together?” He actually couldn’t imagine that. 

“Yes, for our mother’s birthday. She loves to hear us play together, so we thought practice might be beneficial. John is out on a date and it was to be the perfect time. That is, until you came along.” He pointed directly at Lestrade, who held up his hands in defense.

“Hey! I’m not interrupting anythin’, am I? Just came to get your advice on that case.” 

“It’s a domestic, just as you’re suspecting. Now, shoo.” He waved at Lestrade, moving to pick up his rosined bow and tuned violin. It was at that moment that Mycroft came lumbering in with what looked like a gigantic violin. If memory served, that was what was called a cello. He set down his own personal chair, nodding wordlessly to Sherlock.

Okay, now he was really curious. He had to see this. “Can’t I see you play? You won’t even know I’m here, promise.” Sherlock was about to deliver a retort when Mycroft spoke.

“Of course. I don’t see why not. Sit there, if you will.” He pointed to the sofa, which had been moved to give Mycroft and Sherlock room to play. They then proceeded to ignore him, making comments about the music in terms Greg didn’t even try to understand. Eventually Mycroft spread his legs and sat down, situating the cello between them; it looked a little ridiculous, seeing that sort of man with a huge instrument between his legs. 

Greg sat down as well and waited, not exactly sure what he was going to hear. A full orchestra was one thing, but just the two of them? 

Mycroft held his bow just above the strings, taking a few experimental strokes before he nodded to Sherlock. They both tensed, instruments at the ready, and then Mycroft began to play. 

His pace was fast; faster than Greg thought was possible for Mycroft. A normally languid and graceful man, his fingers flew across the cello. Sherlock was swaying on his feet a few paces away, his bow slicing across the strings with amazing speed. The most interesting thing had to be the sudden energy that Mycroft held. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and with every intense, drawn out note he seemed to lean into it with his very being. His cheeks were beginning to flush red with exertion, and he did some wiggling motion with his hand that made the note resonate beautifully. 

When Greg realized Mycroft had opened his eyes and was looking at him, his heart skipped a couple beats. God. He had always been enchanted by anyone who could play an instrument, but that was more around the range of guitars; you know, things that made a man look hot. Yet he found the image in front of him inexorably sexy, goosebumps rising on his arms with each deep, quick stroke. Greg forced himself to look at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed, fiercely concentrating on the movements of his fingers and bow.

That didn’t last long. When the tempo changed, his eyes latched onto Mycroft; it was even _faster_. Mycroft’s hand flew across the fingerboard. He was alive with intense motion. “Fuckin’ hell,” Greg breathed quietly. Mycroft’s lips quirked and his head jerked with every few strokes, matching Sherlock perhaps not in grace, but in power. Then the pace finally began to slow again, losing intensity that transformed into grace. 

Mycroft was— hell, he was beautiful. Sherlock was always gorgeous and could tempt the pants off of the Pope, but Mycroft, who was handsome and mysterious half of the time, was dead sexy playing the cello. Greg worried he might be getting into old habits, being inexplicably attracted to men playing instruments. When the song ended, Greg let out a breath he’d been holding, noticing Mycroft was pink-tinted and breathing slightly harder than usual. 

“Mycroft has the nasty habit of holding his breath when he plays. Really, you look debauched.” Their eyes met and Greg thought a blush looked nice on him, in all honesty. 

“That was, wow.” Greg felt like clapping, but thought would ruin the atmosphere surrounding them. Both of the brothers looked pleased by his reaction, as perceptive as they were. “That’s spectacular. I can’t even begin to think how long it took you to get that good.” 

“We play _well_ because our mother initially made Mycroft; naturally I followed, and am better than he is.”

“Don’t be so tawdry Sherlock; your E was flat on several occasions.”

“As if you were the picture of perfection. Do you call that _vibrato_?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft breathed softly. “Very well, shall we have the inspector decide who was the victor?” They turned; Greg began to sweat. 

“Now, now, ladies, you’re both pretty. And, oh— look, I have to run. Had a great time, Ta. Thanks for the tip, Sherlock.” He jumped up, not about to get in the middle of a Holmes battle of wits and left with as much grace as possible, slightly confused and aroused by Mycroft. 

—-

“How predictable. You showed off and managed to ‘impress him’ just as you wanted, but I think he may be in love with you now. Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like you were some sort of cello god.” 

“He seemed particularly fixated on my fingers.” Mycroft wiggled them experimentally. 

“You both are repulsive.” Sherlock snorted in disgust, thumbing through their collective pieces for something mummy would like. She was fond of Bach.


End file.
